Maximum Security (6 page)

Quick-draw’s slicked-back hair is far too black to have come from Mother Nature. He greets the Kydd with a vigorous handshake and then accepts my outstretched hand more reluctantly, tossing his glossy head back toward the other room. He wants to speak privately, his dark eyes tell me. Maybe he plans to diversify my portfolio. Money guys sometimes assume that I have one.

He cups my elbow in his palm—a gesture I find utterly irritating—and propels me toward the living room. “I need some advice,” he says as he closes the heavy doors between us and the kitchen.

Yes, he does. And I should give it to him.
Don’t steer women around as if we’re on wheels,
I should say. But I don’t. No need to alienate a potential witness. “Advice about what?” I ask instead.

“About what I know.”

“Pardon?”

“How much do I know?”

“How much do you
know
?” He knows more than I do at the moment. I don’t even know what he’s asking.

“About Louisa,” he says.

Now I’m thoroughly confused. “You want me to tell you how much you know about Louisa?”

He crosses the room and leans over to rest one forearm on the mantel, his back to me. He’s quiet for a second, staring down at the few logs crackling in the fireplace. The living room’s heavy drapes are closed and the only other light in here is thrown by a floor lamp in the far corner.

“I’m asking you how much I
should
know,” he says, turning to face me again.

I shake my head. I don’t know what the hell he’s driving at.

“About her finances, for example.” He puts one hand on his hip and raises the other, along with his eyes, to the ceiling. He’s annoyed.

“You’re her money manager. You should know everything about her finances, shouldn’t you?”

He runs both hands through his inky hair and laughs, staring into the fire and then eyeing me sideways. I’m apparently one of the denser people he’s come across in life. “I
do
,” he says. “Of course I do. But I don’t have to tell them that.”

“Them?”

“The cops. If they think Louisa offed her husband to get at the insurance proceeds, they’re going to want to talk to me, aren’t they?”

“They probably will,” I tell him, “if the investigation goes that far.”

“Then you need to tell me what to say.”

I pause for a moment to look him in the eyes, to make sure he means what I think he means. He does.

“You’re mistaken, Mr. Collier. I don’t need to do any such thing. In fact, I’m specifically prohibited from doing anything of the sort.”

“What do you mean, you’re prohibited? You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

Every once in a while I meet someone who seems to feel compelled to inform me that I am a lawyer. Generally speaking, I don’t like these people. Implicit in the pronouncement is the arrogant assumption that I’m not acting like one.

“Mr. Collier,” I tell him, “if the police question you about this matter, you should tell them nothing but the truth.”

“The truth.” He half laughs, staring at me, as if he’s waiting for my real answer.

I nod. “No need to volunteer anything,” I tell him. “Just answer the questions asked. But don’t try to hide information either.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“Yes, it is. Get cute with them and
you’ll
be the target of the next investigation.”

He laughs again, a full one this time, and heads back toward the kitchen. Apparently I’m dismissed.

“Mr. Collier,” I say as he approaches the doors, “I was wondering…”

He hesitates, his hand on the doorknob, as if whatever portion of his day he’d allotted for his discussion with me has been used up. After a moment, he turns to face me, his impatience plain.

I walk closer to him, so I can look him in the eyes when he answers. “I was wondering if you might know anything about the Rawlingses’ marriage.”

“Their marriage?”

“Yes. I’m curious as to whether they were having problems of any kind, what the prospects might have been for their future.”

He plants both hands on his hips, forcing his suit coat open in the process. My eyes rest on a shiny revolver in a shoulder holster at his rib cage.

His gaze follows mine for a moment, and then he looks back up at me, smiling. “Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s legit. I’m licensed.”

I consider telling him I’m not as worried as he might assume—I’m packing my own Lady Smith, after all—but decide against it. “I was asking about the Rawlingses’ marriage,” I remind him.

His return gaze is steady. “Herb and Louisa Rawlings were extremely happy together. They had no problems.”

I nod, but say nothing.

Now it’s his turn to take a step closer. He seems to want to look me in the eyes too. “Their future,” he says, “was secure.”

It’s after five by the time we wrap up. The Kydd has reassembled Louisa’s file, adding the copious notes he took this afternoon to the paltry pages I scratched out yesterday. He amassed a small mountain of legal-size sheets today, writing almost nonstop since we got started, and I’m pretty sure I know why. He’s besotted with our damsel in distress. Note-taking kept him from drooling. At least most of the time.

I rest on the edge of a kitchen stool and face Louisa, who’s leaning against the stove, arms folded, watching the Kydd position her file in the belly of his briefcase. “About Steven Collier,” I begin.

Her gaze shifts to me and she tilts her auburn head to one side. “What about him?”

“Did he handle Herb’s money too? Or just yours?”

She laughs. “Only Herb handled Herb’s money, darlin’. No one else put a hand in that cookie jar.”

I look around the kitchen for a moment, and then into the sunroom, where late-afternoon light reflects off the waves outside and casts intricate designs on the far wall. Of course Herb Rawlings managed his own assets. He must’ve been damned good at it.

“Herb and Steven talked about money all the time,” Louisa continues. “They never tired of it—stocks, bonds, tax shelters, you name it. They were always bandying moneymaking strategies about. Investing was a competitive sport for them. They kept tabs on Wall Street the way other men follow football.”

“Did Steven have access to Herb’s financial affairs? Copies of documents, for instance?”

Louisa pauses for a moment, considering. “Some,” she says. “Herb gave Steven copies of whatever documents he thought would affect my estate planning: the will, the insurance policies, that sort of thing.”

I tell myself to quell my uneasiness over Steven Collier. It makes sense that he has those documents. He’d have a tough time doing his job otherwise. And plenty of people carry firearms for legitimate reasons. I’m one of them. Besides, there’s no reason to think Herb Rawlings was shot. Guns have nothing to do with this case. Plenty of people lie, too, especially if they think it will help someone they want to protect. Clearly Collier has thought about the damage Louisa’s divorce plans might cause under the circumstances.

“And Anastasia’s trust documents,” Louisa adds. “Herb made a point of giving Steven a copy of those. I remember the two of them coming back here after an afternoon on the
Carolina Girl
to discuss it.”

“Anastasia has a trust?”

Louisa unfolds her arms and holds both hands up, palms out. “Don’t get me started,” she says, but apparently I already did. She barely pauses for breath. “Doting Daddy has the dreadful daughter financed for life. Heaven forbid she lift a finger during her stay on earth.”

It occurs to me that Anastasia’s earthly existence sounds somewhat comparable to Louisa’s, but I don’t mention it. “Why would Herb give a copy of Anastasia’s trust documents to Steven Collier?” I ask instead.

Louisa leaves her post at the stove and examines the floor as she saunters to a stool across the counter from mine. She smiles when she looks up, her rich brown eyes genuinely amused. “That’s a fair question,” she says as she sits, “from someone who doesn’t know Anastasia.”

Something tells me I just might get to know Anastasia before all this is over. There’s more bad blood here than I’d realized.

“To those of us who know her,” Louisa continues, “the answer is obvious. I knew immediately. Steven did too.”

She leaves her perch at the counter, takes a few steps and leans against the refrigerator. I wait.

“Anastasia is specifically excluded from her father’s will,” Louisa says. “And our Anastasia will be apoplectic when she finds out.”

“Why?” I ask. “Why is she excluded?”

“Because she’s already taken care of,” Louisa answers. “Her trust is well funded. It will support her quite comfortably—her and her beatnik boyfriend, I might add—for life. Herb thought it best to keep Anastasia’s financial interests separate from mine.”

Herb thought right on that score. Too bad he couldn’t find separate planets for them too. “I’m not following you, Louisa. I still don’t see why Steven Collier has copies of Anastasia’s trust documents.”

“We’ll need them,” she says, “when the poor little rich girl contests her daddy’s will.”

I should have seen that coming. If Steven Collier were here, he’d undoubtedly ask me if I’m a lawyer.

“And she
will
contest it,” Louisa adds. “Make no mistake about that. She’ll be in probate court before Herb’s attorney finishes breaking the news.”

Now it’s my turn to leave my perch. It’s time to get out of here. I have other questions, including more than a few about Anastasia Rawlings, but I want to sleep on them before I ask. We’ve covered enough ground for one day. No need to open Pandora’s box before we leave.

“I’d like to meet earlier tomorrow,” I tell Louisa as I take my jacket from the back of the chair. “How’s nine o’clock?”

She shrugs. “It’s fine with me,” she says. “I’ll be here.”

The Kydd takes my cue and starts for the kitchen door, but then stops. He turns and heads for the living room instead, apparently remembering Louisa’s preference. I grab my briefcase and follow, our hostess right behind me.

I’m eager to get going. I’m meeting Harry at his place so we can go out for a quick bite. And Luke should be home by now too. If he doesn’t have a date, and hasn’t already made plans with friends, we might be able to talk him into joining us. Harry and I are good company, Luke always says, if no one else is around.

The Kydd bids Louisa good-bye with a nod, looks down at his shoes as if he’s embarrassed, and then hurries out the front door and down the steps to the brick walkway. She watches as he crosses the oyster-shell driveway, opens the Thunderbird’s back door, and slides his briefcase onto the seat. She leans in the doorway and sips from yet another glass of her terrible tea. I hadn’t realized she’d brought it along.

“Is he yours?” she asks.

“Pardon me?”

She points her tall, perspiring glass toward the Kydd. “That delightful young man. Is he yours?”

For reasons I don’t understand in the least, I feel a twinge of panic. “Mine? I don’t know what you mean.”

A satisfied smile crosses Louisa’s face. “Well, then, he’s not. You’ve answered my question, darlin’.”

I wish to God she’d stop calling me that.

Harry and I pull up to my cottage to find a brand-spanking-new Porsche in the driveway. It’s cleaner than my kitchen table and waxed to perfection, shimmering even in the diffused light of dusk. I’ve never seen this car before, but I’ve heard about it—and its price tag—from Luke. The sight of it makes my stomach hurt.

Luke’s truck is in the shop. He stayed in Boston after classes ended yesterday, went to a Celtics game with a group of buddies last night, and then slept over at his father’s harbor-front condo. Ralph drove him home this afternoon.

It wasn’t necessary for Ralph to make the ninety-mile trip down here, of course. Luke could have taken the bus from Boston to Hyannis, as he’s done a hundred times before, and either Harry or I would have gladly picked him up at the station. Ralph wouldn’t hear of it, though. He insisted on driving. And now he’ll tell me a thousand times how terribly inconvenient it was.

Harry lets out a long, low whistle. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, parking his old Jeep next to the sleek machine. “A Carrera 911. You must be moonlighting.”

I laugh and climb out of the Jeep. My day job barely covers the never-ending repairs to the old Thunderbird. I’d have to be moonlighting as a plastic surgeon to imagine a Porsche on my horizon.

“Where the hell did this come from?” Harry gets out of the Jeep too and stands still in the driveway, staring at the Porsche the way he might gaze at an icy case of Heineken if he’d been stranded in the desert for a week.

“It’s Ralph’s,” I tell him. “He brought Luke home from Boston today.”

“Ralph,” Harry repeats. “He’s still here?”

I feel a little bit like a game show hostess, holding my hands out toward the gleaming status symbol. “Apparently he is.”

“You want me to disappear?”

Harry’s question almost makes me laugh. Ralph walked out on Luke and me a dozen years ago, and he largely ignored us for the first ten of them. He came out of the woodwork two years back, after remarrying and redivorcing. Luke was a junior in high school then. And his father had decided it was time to get to know him.

“No,” I tell Harry, shaking my head. “I don’t want you to disappear.”

He drapes his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close as we head for the back steps. “Okay,” he says, kissing my forehead. “I guess I’ve got an appointment with the shrink who needs his head examined.”

Ralph is on his feet when Harry and I come through the kitchen door, his car keys in hand. My heart sinks for a moment when I realize we could have avoided him if we’d arrived just a few minutes later. The old adage is true: Timing
is
everything.

Danny Boy gallops into the kitchen the instant we’re inside. He almost never runs anywhere anymore, but Luke is home, and now we are too, and Danny Boy can barely contain his joy. He yelps and jumps up on me, his big paws landing on my stomach, and I fall backward against Harry. If he hadn’t pulled the kitchen door shut behind him, we’d both go over like dominoes onto the back deck.

“Luke,” Ralph yells into the living room, “come get the damned dog. He’s out of control.” Ralph doesn’t like Danny Boy, never has. Danny Boy doesn’t lose any sleep over it, though. He doesn’t think much of Ralph, either. And, as far as Danny Boy is concerned, he’s the one with seniority around here. Ralph is the newcomer.

Luke strolls into the kitchen, laughing, but doesn’t bother to restrain the dog. There’s no reason to, of course, except in Ralph’s head. Instead, Luke stoops to give me a kiss. At six feet three, he’s got a solid nine inches on me. He gets his height from his father but most of his other traits—fair skin, dark blue eyes, and black hair—from me. He trades arm punches with Harry. Hard ones.

“Who the hell is he?” Ralph points at Harry, but asks me the question, as if he’s inquiring about a figure in a wax museum.

“Ralph Ellis,” I say, “meet Harry Madigan.”

Harry extends a hand, but Ralph hesitates. After a moment, he shakes it gingerly, as if Harry might detonate on contact.

“Ralph,” Harry says, “how are you?”

Ralph doesn’t answer. Instead he looks Harry up and down, assessing him, and then turns back to me. “What the hell is going on with the truck?”

Here we go. “It needs work,” I tell him, hoping to short-circuit this discussion.

“I
know
that.” Ralph raises his hands to the heavens, the way he always does when he wants to be sure I know he’s at the end of his rope.

“Dad,” Luke says, “give it a rest. It’s not that big a deal.”

But for Ralph, Luke’s pickup truck
is
a big deal, even when it’s operational. Ralph purchases nothing but the best. He can. He doesn’t believe in
used
anything. Why would he? He’s been mad at Luke, and ballistic at me, since we bought a used truck last Christmas. Funny, though, he hasn’t offered to replace it.

“What’s this about Luke working at the goddamned garage?” he demands.

I had been hoping Luke wouldn’t mention that particular plan to his father. One look at Luke tells me he’s sorry he did. “Rematch?” he asks Harry. Luke is feeling the heat and he wants to get out of the kitchen. I don’t blame him. I’d like to get out of here too.

“You’re a glutton for punishment, kiddo,” Harry says, looking a little relieved himself. The two of them escape into the living room, Danny Boy right behind them, to set up the chessboard.

“He’s working at the
garage
?” Ralph repeats the word as if it’s profane.

“For a day,” I tell him. “He’ll help Peter with the truck on Monday and Peter will cut him some slack on the bill.”

Peter Schaeffer is our mechanic and he’s the only reason my Thunderbird is still on the road. I’m hoping he’ll perform similar miracles on Luke’s truck. Peter and Luke have always gotten along well—they’re both car fanatics. And for some reason, that fact has always irritated Ralph.

“Not just for a day,” he says. “They can’t get it all done in one day. Luke’s working there Tuesday too. Monday and Tuesday. Skipping classes both days.”

Now that’s a portion of the plan I hadn’t heard yet.

“So my son’s not a college student,” Ralph continues. “He’s a grease monkey.”

I can see into the living room over Ralph’s shoulder. Luke jumps up from the couch when he hears his father’s words and dashes to the center of the room. He bends in half and scoots around in circles, alternately scratching his head and armpits, then dragging his knuckles on the floor. Harry falls back against the cushions and stomps his boots on the braided rug. He’s having a laughing fit, not making a sound.

It takes every shred of willpower I can muster to keep a straight face. “A grease monkey,” I repeat. I look back at Ralph with what I hope is a somber expression. Any trace of amusement would send him into a spin. “I guess that’s what he is.”

Ralph shakes his head, disgusted, and points at the kitchen door. “Come outside for a minute,” he says. “I want to talk to you.”

I consider telling him I’m not going anywhere. He can say whatever he has to say right here in the kitchen. But it’s not worth the scene it would cause. “Let me grab a sweater,” I tell him instead, and I head for the living room closet.

Harry and my son the monkey have moved the coffee table into the center of the room. They’re sitting on the floor on opposite sides of it, arranging the chessboard between them. Harry looks up as I pass. “You okay?” he asks in a low voice.

“I’m swell,” I tell him. “But if Fay Wray isn’t back in ten minutes, send King Kong.”

* * *

Ralph and I are having the talk I knew we would have—the one about Luke’s academic endeavors. Ralph, of course, would characterize the discussion differently. He’d say it’s about the lack thereof. We’ve had this debate before. We’ll have it again. And Luke will be ready to retire from the workforce long before we reach an agreement.

Luke has always been a good student—in certain subjects. His grades are consistently strong in English, literature, and philosophy; they’re not so hot in math. He has a knack for foreign languages, but his chemistry teacher described him as downright frightening in the lab. Luke has never been troubled by his weak spots, even telling his high school guidance counselor they’re blessings in disguise, clear indicators of career paths he shouldn’t waste time exploring.

I laughed when the guidance counselor took me aside after a basketball game and shared Luke’s philosophical approach to academia. The counselor confirmed what I already knew: Luke is comfortable with his foibles, at ease with having limits. And I am glad about that.

His father didn’t see it that way.

When Luke graduated from Chatham High School four months ago, he took the top prize from the English department and was recognized for his magna cum laude performance on the national Latin exam. I was proud of his accomplishments, of course, but I was also proud of what he did next. When the physics instructor walked to the podium to present the award to the student who had excelled in the sciences, Luke twisted in his seat and caught my eye, nearly losing his tasseled cap in the process. “Get ready,” he mouthed, pounding his thumb against the dark blue gown at his chest. “This baby’s all mine.” It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

His father didn’t see it that way.

When Luke enrolled at Boston College, I encouraged him to sign up for the courses he likes, to pursue the subjects that interest him. After all, I reasoned, Luke is training for his future. And he’s a naturally energetic, upbeat guy. He ought to fashion a future that suits him.

His father didn’t see it that way.

Ralph is a forensic psychiatrist. He’s a scientist at heart, a man who reduces all aspects of existence to their component parts. For Ralph, there is no life problem that doesn’t have a logical solution. And the solution to Luke’s problems, Ralph always tells both of us, is simple: He should work harder. He should be more like Ralph.

Luke doesn’t see it that way.

Tonight Ralph is worked up over Luke’s first-semester schedule. “There’s not a single science course in the lineup,” Ralph told me ten minutes ago. He had repeated this shocking tidbit of information three times since then. And I kept forgetting to gasp.

It occurs to me that it’s a little late to complain about courses Luke selected four months ago, in June, but I don’t mention it. When Ralph’s worked up, I clam up. That’s a routine we established a long time ago.

“He’s taking art history, for Christ’s sake,” Ralph adds now. Apparently this, too, is a capital offense.

Danny Boy has been panting at the living room window, paws on the sill, keeping a watchful eye on us throughout our driveway debate. He starts barking at Ralph now, moving his big paws up to the windowpane, his nails scratching the glass. I’m not sure what prompted his change in demeanor, but I decide to trust his canine instincts. “I’m going in now,” I tell Ralph. “There’s nothing more to say. We disagree. That’s all there is to it.”

He clutches his goateed chin between thumb and index finger and shakes his head. He’s angry—again—that I don’t see life through his cheerless lenses. He opens his mouth, as if he plans to continue the argument, but then apparently thinks better of it. He presses a button on his key chain and the Porsche lights up and honks as I head for the back steps. “Marty,” he calls after me.

He’s got one foot in the car when I turn around, his left hand on top of the open driver’s-side door, his right one still holding the keys, resting on the roof. He juts his goatee out toward the cottage. “Your friend in there,” he says. “Henry.”

“Harry,” I correct him.

“Whatever.” Ralph pauses and shakes his head yet again. He’s annoyed with my attention to unimportant detail. “The guy’s got an attitude,” he says, pointing his keys at the living room window. “I don’t like him.”

Ah, the considered, objective judgment of the scientist. Where would the rest of us be without it? I turn away from him and climb the back steps without another word.

By the time I get back to the living room, it’s obvious that Luke is exasperated. This, in itself, is not surprising. Luke always gets exasperated when he plays chess with Harry, but it usually takes a little longer than the fifteen minutes or so they’ve been playing. He gets up from the floor and flops onto the living room couch. “Wake me up when you move,” he says to Harry, “if I’m still breathing.”

Harry sits immobile on the floor, his eyes glued to the chess-board on the coffee table, the only sign of life his occasional ogle of Luke’s king. “Sure thing,” he answers, motionless.

Luke bounds up again. “I forgot,” he says, pounding a palm against his forehead as if he’s in a V8 commercial. “You cheat.”

“It’s not cheating if everyone knows you do it,” Harry replies.

Luke calls these pearls of wisdom Harry-isms. There’s no reasoning with the guy, he tells me after every chess match. He turns to me now, his hands in the air, his eyes wide. “Do you
see
what I’m talking about?”

I nod at him and laugh. I do.

“I’m gonna order a pizza,” Luke says, heading for the phone in the kitchen. “Watch the board for me, will you, Mom? You can’t trust this guy for two seconds.”

“Sausage and onions,” Harry yells after him. “And anchovies,” he adds.

“Not on your life,” Luke calls back. “Pepperoni. Nothing else belongs on pizza.”

“Order two,” I tell him. “And one of them had better be half plain cheese.”

Luke pops his head back into the living room to see if I’m serious about this outrageous suggestion. I nod to let him know I am. I’m hungry. And at the rate this chess game is moving, we won’t get out to eat until
next
Saturday. Luke’s eyes move to Harry, as if he needs a second opinion.

“Your mom’s a plain Jane,” Harry says, his gaze not leaving the chessboard.